


The Sweetest Things

by Guardian_Kysra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Committment without marriage, Draco is a crotchety old man, Established Relationship, F/M, Food Play, Hermione is everyone's mum, Kitchen Sex, Mentions of Child Loss, Middle aged Draco, Middle aged Hermione, Pumpkin Spice Fic Fest 2020, Reading may cause diabetes, aging sucks, mentions of menopause
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Kysra/pseuds/Guardian_Kysra
Summary: A Granger-Malfoy family tradition is derailed in the sweetest way.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66
Collections: Pumpkin Spice Fic Fest





	The Sweetest Things

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [PSpiceFicFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PSpiceFicFest) collection. 



> Mind the rating!!!!
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
> Farmer's market - Caramel apples

“Did you know that caramel apples were invented by a muggle named Dan Walker in the 1950s while he was employed by Kraft Foods?”

“I do now.” Draco grumbled, hands in pockets, a few steps ahead. “I would be surprised if _you_ didn’t.

Hermione looked up from the list of items in her hands, scowling. “Don’t start, Malfoy. I don’t deserve your curmudgeonly attitude.” He had been in a snit for the last three weeks – since their youngest daughter, Libra, announced that she would be moving to Brazil for work.

This was par for the course. Every big life change – particularly when it involved the children – was an emotional powder keg for Draco; and – in general – Hermione was understanding and patiently supportive. However, this time he was being especially surly, rude and needlessly combative. Honestly, his demeanor had been similar when their second daughter, Aquila, told them she was pregnant; the memories always gave Hermione a migraine.

And she was absolutely _done_ with his nonsense.

Quickening her pace, she made a bee-line for the a stall selling fresh produce. They had come to Winchester farmer’s market for two items only, and the last thing she wanted was Draco puttering around getting distracted. 

There were a variety of apples, but she only wanted tart varieties. The Granny Smiths were a lovely saturated color and shiny, but the Cortlands were appetizingly round and a vibrant crimson and the Idareds seemed a charming combination of the other two. She picked up an Idared, turning it this way and that, thinking. Generally, they needed careful storage, however, she didn’t really need to worry about that as she would be using it immediately and –

“For fuck’s sake, Granger, I’m not getting any younger here. Just choose some bloody apples already.”

. . . _not getting any younger . . ._ The crux of Draco’s bad attitude. 

It all started years ago after their first son, Scorpius, was born. She had been twenty-six – Draco twenty-five, and he had already gone completely gray, his hairline had already begun to recede. It had been a real raw wound for him – almost as hurtful as the remnants of his defunct Dark Mark. He had gone on and on about how Malfoys _Did. Not. Age._ They had apparently been gifted with eternal youth and good looks by virtue of their genetics and name. It was anathema that he should lose his trademark blond along with the actual hair. 

Admittedly, Hermione had not been especially empathic, particularly since gray streaks began to appear tangled among her own long locks; however, time and Hermione’s assurance that she was still very much attracted to him (moreso actually) eventually softened him to the changes. 

Similar meltdowns occurred when he first noticed wrinkles cutting into his skin, as arthritis settled into his joints, when he received his first pair of “dad” trousers, and one especially horrible day when his cock refused to respond to her.

Brain on fire, Hermione pinned him with the fiercest “mum” glare she can find the energy to muster. “I will take as long as I bloody well please, Malfoy. These apples are for you and our children; for the tradition **_you_** started when Scorpius was five; and if you want things to move faster you are welcome to stop whinging, get over here and _Choose. Them. Yourself.”_ She didn’t wait for him to retort, choose, or anything else, just whirled on her heel and stomped away, past the wonderful scents of food stuffs and handmade soaps, earthy vegetables and sweet fruits, straight to the apparition point and popping back home.

***

Hours later, Hermione woke to a silent, dark bedroom and a dry mouth. She was fairly certain she had been snoring. A long patch of skin stretching from lip to jaw was sticky and tight. Probably drooled too.

With creaking joints and a long groan, she stretched and shifted to sit at the edge of the bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She had returned in a whirlwind of frustration and resentment, ignored Narcissa’s questions and concerned calls from the first floor veranda, stormed up the three staircases (thanks to a well-used and powerful expansion charm and traipsed down the long hall to her bedroom and fell into a troubled nap.

She sniffed, unstuck a few strands of hair from her face and cast lumos. It was now late evening. She most likely had missed the children’s arrival . . . possibly dinner; yet, she could smell something warm, heavy, and sweet in the air even so far from the kitchens. Her stomach growled loudly.

Sighing, she strained her ears but heard nothing. Narcissa must have retired to her solar. Draco was probably sulking.

The big baby.

She huffed to herself. Didn’t he realize by now that he wasn’t alone in worrying? She was feeling off-kilter and empty too. She worried about the near future as an empty-nester too. She didn’t want her baby to run off to the other side of the world either. She didn’t think of herself as old enough to be a grand-mother any more than he thought he was old enough to be a grand-father. Sometimes, she looked at herself in the mirror and wondered where the time had gone. Other times, she took in her reflection and catalogued every wrinkle, scar and skin tag. She could remember, with fondness, how svelte her figure once was – now soft and rounded, drooping in places and sagging in others (a differentiation she had never really understood before) and lumpy with cellulite around the thighs. 

Like Draco, she often feared her partner was going to lose interest in her because her tummy was never going to be as tight and flat after six children, her breasts would never be high and perky again after breastfeeding for _years_ , and . . . she would never laugh as freely or prettily after losing their sixth child in his first year.

She wiped her eyes again, this time feeling a small amount of moisture. It was times like this she wished she could speak to her mother; but she had never been able to reverse the obliviation she had performed during the war. They had kept tabs on the Wilkins, so Hermione had been notified when her father was diagnosed with terminal cancer and summarily died ten years ago. Draco had smuggled her in as an unnamed guest when her mother remarried four years ago. Both knew it would never really be enough to watch from afar. Hermione’s grief was something she carried with her throughout her life – seeing all of the missed opportunities alongside all of the blessings.

Draco often became agitated with her when she descended into regret. He wasn’t very good at comforting, wasn’t adept at all in the _giving_ aspect of relationships. These were things she knew at the outset of their relationship and still ended up falling for him.

Sometimes, she still struggled with the reasons why. 

“Mum?” She hadn’t noticed the sound of the door opening such was the depth and completeness of her introspections. Libra’s pretty young face peered inside the room, found Hermione, smiled. “I was hoping you were awake.”

Hermione watched her youngest daughter walk towards her. She was dressed in Ministry robes, her badge proudly labeling her an Unspeakable. Unlike her two elder sisters, Libra had inherited the Granger brown curls, the thick, chaotic mass usually pinned up and wound up into a tight bun at the top of her head. 

“I was just getting up.” She stood. “Is everything all right?”

“Papa is cooking.” Libra said it with grim fatalism as if her words were actually, “The world is ending,” all gravitas and a stony expression.

Hermione laughed. “I’ll go check on him in a moment.” She stepped forward and wove her arm through her daughter’s. “Now tell me what you can about this project that’s taking you all the way to Brazil.” 

All of the Granger-Malfoy children were intelligent. Scorpius was sitting in the Wizengamot, his ambition to one day be Minister like his mother before him; Canis was a world-renowned curse breaker; Vela became an Arithmancy professor and during the summers, she assisted in arithmancy-centric projects at the Ministry; Aquila had opened a magical preschool – the first of its kind – after being inspired by the birth of her son, Alshain; and Libra was an Unspeakable specializing in interdimensional alchemy.

They talked until they reached the first floor landing. Hermione could see through to the dining room, the table settings, the back of Canis’s head, the tips of Narcissa’s shoes. The high pitched voice of one of the house elves (Winnie, she thinks) was making excuses for Draco (or Master). Hermione shook her head, whispered a kiss against Libra’s temple then told her to go ahead to dinner. “Papa and I will be along shortly.”

Entering the hatch to the kitchens, Hermione’s jaw dropped when she spied a large sack of ripe Cortland apples, roughly the size of a small child. Draco didn’t look up. His focus was on a thin stick in his hand, his fingers twirling it slowly, deftly within the confines of a medium-sized pot on the stove.

Her heart dropped when she noticed the length of wax paper, a line of caramel apples resting a few feet from his elbow. She leaned her hip against the counter. “Where is your candied apple?” He always had one during this little tradition. He would always say he preferred the way the crunch and stickiness of the candy complimented the solid tart of the apple. 

Carefully removing the apple from the caramel and resting it among its brethren, Draco wiped his hands on a ready flannel – a nervous tick rather than an actual move for cleanliness. He didn’t meet her eyes. “The sweetest things are worth a few sacrifices.” A sigh and then, “I thought we could bring some to your mother, have her be part of the tradition this year.”

She swallowed, looking down at the tips of her shoes, her nose prickling and her eyes burning. Draco wasn’t particularly good at the giving side of their relationship; but when he did find it in himself to give, he always went big and never skimped on sentimentality. Closing her eyes, she murmured, “I’m sorry I yelled and abandoned you among muggles.”

He gave a short laugh, the sound warm and embracing. “I’m sorry I’ve been a gigantic git.”

She suddenly felt a little emotional in the face of his apology. A long time ago, Draco would never have condescended to apologize for _anything_ , and after they had begun dating – decades ago, she had made it clear she would not tolerate a boyfriend who wasn’t humble enough to admit to his mistakes. In those early days, his apologies were always backhanded, half-arsed, and grudging. (“ _Mother never required apologies from Father. She was always quite happy to accept gifts of contrition when Father did or said something she took exception to.”)_ However, over the years and particularly after the children were born, his humility had deepened and apologies slipped from his lips with an ease that took her breath for how unexpected she still found them.

Smiling softly, she stepped closer, “I could have helped, you know.” His answering smirk inspired a shiver down her spine, the feeling deepening and filling her as his hands found her hips, pulling her into him.

“You needed a rest.” He sighed, touching her faces, her hair, combing back stray curls, tracing the lines of her ear. “I know I haven’t made things easy with . . . everything.” He closed his eyes. “Libra.”

Hermione leaned forward, holding him and resting her cheek against his heart, listening. “What are you afraid of?” 

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, squeezing her a little. “What if she never comes back?” Her heart fluttered in her chest and a lump rose to her throat. Despite loving each other for decades, it still wasn’t often that Draco laid his worries bare before her so plainly. Early on, she had been insulted that he seemed incapable of trusting her enough to communicate his more vulnerable moments; however, she eventually realized that it wasn’t a question of trust but of self-worth. He simply didn’t believe himself worthy of that level of care from someone who was not his mother (someone obligated to see to his welfare). The sins of his history had left an indelible mark (so much heavier though less visible) on his ability to recognize and – more importantly – accept genuine concern, affection and love.

Daily, she reminded herself of how lucky she was that she had found the strength and determination to fight for him. Times like this, he reminded her of just how much further she needed to go.

“She’s not traveling to some distant planet, Draco. We’ll be able to floo call, speak to her on the mobile, visit via portkey, and she’ll be returning for hols. She’s our daughter. She’s going away to work, not running away from our family.”

He sighed heavily, beginning to rock her gently from side to side. She buried her nose in his robes, inhaling the traces of woodsmoke and leaves, apple and sugar clinging to him. Her eyes closed, she bit her tongue against the want to tell him that she had been afraid of the same when Libra had first spoken to them about the move; how her very womb twisted with the thought of losing her baby girl to distance and research.

Catastrophizing was a talent she and Draco obviously shared.

“What are you afraid of?” It was a light murmur, barely audible even with his mouth so close to her ear, more breath than tone. She shivered. His hands ran up and down her back, occasionally cupping her bum. 

He was solid and tall and broad, and she clung to him as she admitted for the first time (aloud), “I’m afraid she’ll be working on some experimental portal or time-piece and something will go wrong – she’ll be sucked into some other time, space, or universe and there will be no way to get her back. I’m afraid she’ll be lost to us forever, somehow.” 

It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. They had already lost one child. It had been a hard lesson to learn, that giving life did not ultimately mean being able to keep it.

Draco didn’t say anything, just gathered her a little closer to the point it was almost painful. There was nothing to say. The honest truth was that – in Libra’s profession – such an incident could occur at any time, no matter where the trial magic was being performed.

They stand there so long, Hermione’s internal grasp on time loosened and became lost. They could have been there minutes, hours, or even days and it would not have mattered. She was feeling more centered than she had in weeks. Draco was too, she knew – his heartbeat steady, his body still and strong, his breath even and his muscles lacking the bunched up tension of previous days.

Slowly, he began to pull away, keeping his hands on her and kissing her skin, her hair, her lips to sweeten the renewed physical distance as he turned to the pot of cooling caramel on the stove. 

Smiling softly, she asked him if he had made the caramel from scratch or melted some candies. He grinned down at her before quite deliberately dipping his index finger into the brown, syrupy goodness and swiping the confection across her lips before covering them (and the caramel) with his own.

The caramel was all the sweeter, more velvety for how it tasted on his tongue.

He hadn’t kissed her like that for –

“How long has it been?” He was hard. She could feel his cock straining behind his trousers, sandwiched between them and pressing into her lower belly. 

Her fingers danced up and down his dress shirt, circling a button here, pulling another there, teasing one out of its hole. “Two weeks.” Her voice sounded rough even to her own ears, hoarse and wanting. Her mouth was watering with the possibilities, anticipation. 

Menopause had tanked her libido for a long while, and Draco had been surprisingly understanding and patient. He was generally needy, sometimes downright brattish about getting what he wanted; but as she aged and entered into “the change,” he had shown a supportive, nurturing side that had made her wish – fervently – for the return of her younger, more responsive body. 

Now that menopause was largely over, she found that her sexual appetite was there but subdued and . . . changed in ways they have enjoyed exploring.

His eyes darkened, the usual gray shining silver around his blown pupils. “How do you feel about a little food play?”

It had been so long since he had initiated anything that she had (very silently) begun to wonder if he had lost interest in her. She knew at least two of his friends were having extramarital affairs (one supposedly with the full-hearted approval of his wife); and though she knew Draco to be a completely devoted father, the lack of an actual marriage between them sometimes had her feeling insecure in his devotion to _her_ (even though he had never shown any inclination to stray and they had _both_ agreed they were not the marrying kind). 

She chose to put her self-doubt aside and take what he was offering, smiling while biting her bottom lip. “All of the children should be here by now . . . they could stumble in here and see –”

He trailed two caramel covered fingers over her exposed clavicle, getting some sweet on the edge of her blouse. “So what if they do? How awful it must be to be an adult with two middling parents who still love and desire each other.” He kissed her lips before bending to suck the candy he just deposited. 

Her head fell back as her hands gripped his shoulders. “I do, you know?”

“You do what?” His hands – sticky though they were – unsnapped and unzipped her denims, pushing them down. 

“Love and desire you. More and more every day.” She blushed as she said it, a flash of heat prickling over her cheeks and falling over her neck and shoulders. The feelings were always there, but they were both horrible at verbalizing them. It was something they understood about each other, and so they never begrudged the other for a lack of “I love you”s. 

That gentle look in his eyes, so rare and precious, has her knees weakening and her heart skipping. This time, she kissed him, the familiar contact of lips and tongue and teeth becoming something more, deeper and intense. 

Soon, their clothes littered the kitchen floor, and one of his hands was caressing her between her legs, the other slathering her breasts with warm caramel while her own caramel slicked palm stroked his erection just the way he preferred. 

Before he could lick her breasts clean, she dropped to her knees to enjoy her work glazing his cock. His moans were electric, swirling into her ear, shivering through her spine and down to her sex, her inner muscles pulsing in time with the shallow thrust of his cock in her mouth.

Merlin, she had missed this – the glide of his flesh against her tongue, the sound of his breath – loud and heavy – filling the space around her the way he would fill her body, the way he was filling her mouth. She had missed his touch more; and she was hard-pressed to deliberate on why they had been abstaining for so long. Wasn’t it a perk of being a retired older couple with grown children that sex could be had whenever and wherever without worrying about an untimely intrusion?

His hands – still tacky with caramel residue – were tangled in her hair, the feel of his grip slightly painful as he tried to guide her along his length, the strands becoming matted and adhered to his skin only to break with the movement of her head.

But she didn’t stop, couldn’t. The sugary caramel with the salt of his skin was alluring and she couldn’t get enough. And when he grunted his release, the savory tang of his semen mixed with the lingering sweetness coating her mouth was equally attractive. Swallowing was an act she had never really enjoyed; however, this time, she found herself almost enthusiastic, digging her nails into his ass cheeks to hold him there, deep in her throat, until the hot spurts of ejaculate slowed and his cock softened.

When she finally moved to rise, he was already there, pulling at her hair, unable to remove his hands from the impressive knots he had created with his sticky fingers. They became stickier still when she fell into him, their mouths crashing together and her caramel covered breasts crushed against his chest.

Blindly, Hermione felt about behind Draco and thrust her hand into the pot before slapping her caramel covered hand between Draco’s shoulder blades, painting the line of his spine. She gasped when he managed to tear one hand out of her hair, wrapped his arm around her waist then twisted to lift her onto the counter, near the wax paper and line of caramel apples.

“Fuck, I love you, Hermione.” His mouth was wide and hot on her breast, his teeth scraping over her nipple. Her hips bucked forward and she cried out. Her entire body felt sensitive and so so _alive_. She wrapped her legs around him, keeping him close, wanting him to bend just a little further.

He understood, coating his fingers with caramel and rubbing it into the skin of her labia then burying his face between her thighs and eating her out like she was the last dessert he would ever be offered. Breathless and awash in sensations she had heartily missed, Hermione whimpered and whinged and moaned and cried. One of her hands flailed above her head for some sort of purchase while the other threaded through his hair, coating the strands with caramel residue as he had done to hers.

When she came, it was with a full-body scream, her limbs jerking uncontrollably, her toes curled so tightly, they spawned a Charlie Horse that had her moaning in an entirely different way. Draco chuckled, not even slightly offended, his fingers – previously squeezing her hip, her thigh and thrusting into her cunt – smoothed down the length of her legs to massage the sudden excruciating tension from her instep and toes.

With the pain fading and her inner muscles still twitching with the echoes of pleasure, Hermione reached up to lick Draco’s shoulder, a smear of caramel disappearing under her tongue. “Thank you, love.”

His fingers were in his mouth, sucking a combination of creamy caramel and Hermione from them. She pressed a quick series of kisses to his neck and shoulders – wherever she could reach easily. Otherwise, they remained, naked in the kitchen, Hermione seated on the counter, their bodies crushed together, his erect cock trapped between their stomachs. 

Hermione began to drift into a doze, her arms wrapped around Draco’s sticky body, kneading the remaining caramel from earlier into his back as she leaned her weight against him. 

“The children are going to wonder where we are,” he said eventually, the blond scruff on his cheeks rubbing along her temple. 

“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had a warm bath . . . maybe two.” She was grinning as she said it, thoroughly happy and content to stay where they were even if her skin was beginning to feel tight with stickiness and her hair might have to be shaved off.

He hummed noncommittally before suddenly hauling her into his arms (a feat he hadn’t performed in years) to walk over to a nearby wall, pressing her back to the smooth painted dry wall. “Draco?” She was breathless and excited, wrapping her legs tighter around his hips and whimpering when he finally slid into her. 

His fingers skated roughly down her spine – catching on caramel – while his mouth devoured hers, his body primed to pound into her. The love was always there, but this passion they shared had cooled slowly with permanent cohabitation then children and parental responsibility, household worries, and age. She fairly sobbed with the strength of his thrusts, the purity of sensation, and the glory of being wanton and wanted so thoroughly. 

All she could do was cling to him, her hips snapping to meet him and her mouth occupied with his pulse point, his ear lobe, crying her pleasure. 

Distantly, she heard a click and creak; but her mind was too busy being fucked out of her to entertain curiosity or care. Accidental magic – from her or him, she couldn’t be sure – caused the pot of caramel (now nearly empty) to shoot across the room, colliding with the closed door before falling and rolling on the ground. It also tore the wax paper off the counter, caramel apples fanning out across the floor. 

Draco’s knees gave out, sending them to the floor as well; but the new position didn’t faze either of them as he continued to fuck her with a savage kind of determination that stole her breath and drove her wild.

When they came together, it was with uncontrollably twitching muscles and spent vocal chords. They collapsed together in a heap just after, a giggle breaking from Hermione’s lips before they both laughed between kisses and words of mirth and love.

Looking at the mess they had made, Hermione smiled, feeling satisfied and just a little tentative. “Those caramel apples had looked so appetizing. It’s a shame we ruined them.”

He just grinned evilly at her, with bedroom eyes, and gestured to the giant sack of apples nearby. “We can always make more.”

She shook her head, trying to get comfortable against him, against the hard floor. “Are you feeling a little better? Now that you’ve . . . released some tension.” There was a slight pressure on the top of her head as he pressed his lips there. 

“As long as you’re here, I’m perfect.” There was a joke there, she knew there was. His eyes were gleaming with mischief and Slytherin subterfuge. She decided she wasn’t going to entertain his ego or machinations.

“We should get cleaned up and dressed before one of the kids –”

“Mum?” It was Vela, their third child and first daughter. “Papa?” Her voice grew closer as Hermione and Draco scrambled to move, cover themselves, _something_ , but they were having trouble untangling their limbs, finding clothes within reach, and -- “Lottie’s serving dinner and Scorpius said you two were indisposed. I was just wondering if you need any – MERLIN, MORGANA AND DUMBLEDORE!”

Draco chuckled at their daughter as she looked upon them with horror and disgust, covering her mouth and turning her back to them. “For goodness sake, Papa! You were supposed to _propose_ to Mum not _debauch_ her!”

Hermione’s entire body froze, her eyes staring at her longtime lover, the father of her children, the husband of her heart. “Propose?” But he wasn’t looking at her, rather he grinned at Vela’s back as she audibly muttered about the different ways she planned to punish her older brother for not _warning_ her their parents were not just “indisposed” but also _d_ _éshabill_ _é._

“It’s rather about time, don’t you think?” He said, turning to regard her as Vela stomps away, embarrassed and angry. “I invited the Minister to perform the binding tonight if you are agreeable. The children, of course, were over the moon when I told them I was going to broach the subject with you. Mother is anxious to see us make it official as well.”

Tears gathered in Hermione’s eyes, her nose tingling as she fought them. “This could very well ruin us, you know?” What they had worked even though they got on each other’s nerves and sometimes it felt as if the relationship was lopsided. She couldn’t regret what they had when she loved him and their family as much as she did, and she couldn’t see herself with anyone else; however, she had to admit – if only to herself – the prospect of such a change scared her a little.

“You’ve already ruined me, love.” The tenderness in his eyes made her feel brave.

She sniffed, lifting her chin, but couldn’t erase the giddiness from curving her mouth, lighting her eyes. “Honestly, I didn’t think I would want to bind myself to you until this moment.”

The crows feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled and deepened with the genuine happiness on his face. They wandlessly and wordlessly disposed of the spilt caramel (which was now hardened) and fallen caramel apples, washed the dishes and scourgified the counters and stovetop. That done, they dressed as well as they could and decided to go upstairs to share a bath, regroom themselves into something presentable.

Dinner and the binding would have to wait just a little longer. After all, the sweetest things were worth a few sacrifices.

**Author's Note:**

> Please ladies, never put food IN your vagina. Just . . . just don't. 
> 
> Similarly, gents, don't put food IN your pee hole and if you are intact, make sure you wash THOROUGHLY after food play.
> 
> NOTES:
> 
> Hermione and Draco's kids from eldest to youngest:
> 
> Scorpius  
> Canis  
> Vela  
> Aquila  
> Libra  
> Caelum (deceased)


End file.
